


Hannigram Tumblr Prompt Fills

by mokuyoubi



Category: Adam (2009), Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal is a Tease, Hannigram - Freeform, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Marking, Murder Husbands, POV Outsider, Possessive Behavior, Post-Finale, Public Sex, Spacedogs, Teasing, Wearing Each Others Clothing, Will is a Jealous Bitch, shared mind palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 19:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6163978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the label. This is where I'll be posting all my tumblr fills that are 1k or shorter. Most of the longer ones will get a separate post! Overall these are Hannigram, additional relationship tags pertain to individual prompts; other tags are prompt specific, as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silence AU Snippet

It begins something like this...

“I want to see him.”

“Will–” Alana raises her hands and lets them drop back to her side with an audible smack, the _what do you expect from me_ clearly implied. “You’re not going anywhere for a while. Chilton’s talking about institutionalising you and Prurnell is on board. If she had her way, you’d be locked away right next to him.

“Okay, great,” Will says, tone flat. “So do it.”

“Will…” Once upon a time, he might have found her exasperation endearing. Now it grates on his nerves. “I’ve seen your tox screen. He had you on a serious cocktail of drugs. No one thinks–no one besides Prurnell thinks you were a willing participant.”

Will drags a hand over his face, digging the heel of his palm into his eyes, scrubbing at the gummy feeling. Of _course_ Hannibal drugged him. It made a lot of sense, after what happened. Hannibal had known the FBI was closing in, and he’d decided to absolve Will of his guilt. Set him free, at last. A little late for that.

It might take a while, but Will is going to enjoy punching him in the fucking jaw.

Alana takes a hesitant step towards the bed, and then another, touching her hand to the sheets near his feet. “Even when they let you out of here, Chilton isn’t going to let you in to see him.”

“They can’t stop me, legally,” Will says, with a viciousness that startles Alana back a step. “We’re married, Alana.”

The pity in Alana’s eyes makes Will’s fingers twitch around a phantom blade. He sees her arguing his case before Prurnell, spouting all sorts of utterly useless factoids on Stockholm Syndrome. How Hannibal used drugs and sex and violence to force a bond between them.

It’s completely absurd, and Will is appalled that Alana honestly believes it. Then again, she’s shown her refusal to see what’s right before her eyes more than once in the past.

“Doctor Fields is really good at her job,” she says. “She can help you. _If_ you let her. Please, Will, let her help you.”

Will hopes his sneer conveys how little interest he has in Doctor Fields’ helpful therapy.

Once she’s gone, Will doesn’t waste any time. The guy sleeping in the next bed is hardly the sort they’d normally go for. But he’s an alcoholic, bipolar, with suicidal ideation, who likes to beat his kids, and Will doesn’t feel a moment’s remorse.

He takes in the lay of the room, the tools with which he has to work, the distance between their beds and how much give there is in the restraints tying him down. It certainly won’t be on the grand scale he and Hannibal created together, but it will suffice.


	2. Will During the 3 Year Break

It comes upon him in moments of calm contentment. He will be making the long drive to town on a grey rainy day, and suddenly Hannibal is seated next to him, remarking on his choice of music. Fishing on the lake, enjoying the still silence of the water and the surface of his mind, and Hannibal is right there along with him in the rowboat, making spectacularly painful puns about Will and his lures.

In the evening after dinner, sitting by the fireplace and the sounds of his comfortable home fade away, the walls disappear around him, to be replaced by those of Hannibal’s office. They stand together, feeding papers to the flames, and Will sees the moment his whole world fell apart, though he hadn’t realised it at the time.

“If it was your intention to see me incarcerated, why is it this moment to which you’re forever returning?” Hannibal asks. His eyes are piercing in Will’s memories, a strange, sanguine red.

“You’re in my head,” Will says, letting his eyes fall closed on the scene.

“Mmm,” Hannibal murmurs his agreement. Will can feel the air shift around him as Hannibal moves closer, and then his breath, hot on Will’s neck. “But that does not mean I’m not real.”

He feels real, when his hands touch Will, falling ever so lightly on his shoulders, but this Hannibal understands Will’s motivations far too well. This Hannibal is only another facet of Will himself, the one who won’t fall silent. The one who won’t let Will carry on in this new life wilfully ignoring the jumbled mass of conflicting desires that led to his final confrontation with Hannibal.

The part of Will that sorely regrets rejecting Hannibal as he did.

That part of Will, dressed in Hannibal’s skin, haunts his daily life. Fitting, as Will has mourned his loss as though Hannibal died that day in the snow. He won’t let Will know true happiness here with Molly and Walter, without the constant reminder of what he sacrificed for it.

There is no way to anticipate when he’ll appear, other than when Will has begun to lower his defenses, and then there is no point in trying to fight it. Hannibal will only become more insistent, his barbs sharper and cruel, if Will ignores him.

Tonight he and Molly cuddle on the sofa while Walter regals them with his retelling of baseball practice today, acting out his frantic slide for homebase. Will’s laughter turns to ash on his tongue when a hand that is not Molly’s brushes against the nap of his neck. Hannibal sits opposite of Molly, wedged tightly between the arm of the sofa and Will’s side. For a figment of Will’s imagination, he gives off quite a lot of body heat.

“Just like his father, isn’t he?” Hannibal whispers, mouth close to Will’s ear. He inhales the scent of Will’s aftershave, but does not comment directly. After a long moment, he exhales in a rush. “Tell me, Will, when you throw a ball for him, when you cheer him on from the stands, when he calls you _Dad_ …”

The way Hannibal says the word sends a shiver of revulsion up Will’s spine, and Molly shoots him a concerned look. “Okay babe?” she asks softly.

Will shakes his head dismissively and she just tugs him closer, wraps him up in her arms, drags her hands up and down his back in a comforting gesture. Will rests his head against the swell of her breast and listens to her steady heartbeat, focusses on Walter’s antics until his eyes burn, and Hannibal drifts away to smoke.

He’s back again later that evening, crouching by the bedside in the dark, once Molly is breathing slowly and deeply in sleep. The moonlight streams through the windows, beams catching on dust motes that drift through the air, forming the shape of horns that rise from the crown of Hannibal’s head.

“Tell me, Will,” he repeats, and pauses, giving Will a patronising, knowing grin. “And be honest, because I’ll know if you’re lying.” He taps two fingers playfully against Will’s temple. “Were you playing a role when you killed Randall Tier? When you seduced me? When you _warned_ me? Or is this a role you’re playing now? Loving father, doting husband?

Will listens to Molly’s even breathing. Her ever-cold feet are tucked between his calves, her hands are curled around his t-shirt at the small of his back. Will’s chest is empty, and the sheets are too tight, and the room is closing in around him. He is trapped.

Hannibal is relentless, having found a chink in Will’s armour. “Is this happiness, Will or are you simply ‘faking it until you make it?’”

“You’re in my _head_ ,” Will groans, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes when he squeezes them closed tight.

The bed dips under Hannibal’s weight and he leans over Will, blocking out the moonlight and leaving Will in dark, endless night. “That’s how you know I’m right,” he hisses.


	3. Murder Husband Mind Palace Fluff

It was late afternoon, sunlight dappled on the gravel path. Will sat beneath an ancient maple tree, carved deep with a century worth of initials. When the wind shifted through the leaves of the tree, his upturned face was kissed by the warmth of the sun. The pressing concerns of the outside world seemed so very far away here; time flowed slow and thick like honey.

Without opening his eyes, he knew the moment Hannibal joined him on the bench. There was no particular sound or scent or any other physical sensation that heralded his arrival. All the same, Will felt it, the very particles around him shifting.

Will laid his hand on the bench beside his thigh, and after a brief moment, Hannibal’s hand brushed against his, their little fingers overlapping and interlocking.

“Don’t be concerned,” Hannibal murmured.

A small smile tugged at Will’s lips, and a breeze ruffled through his hair, sunlight throbbed bright red and orange behind his eyelids. “I’m not,” he said, equally soft.

“I have a plan.”

Will opened his eyes then. It seemed only seconds before to have been the afternoon, with the sun high overhead, but now a blood-red sunset streaked across the sky. He rolled his head to the side to regard Hannibal. He grinned, wide, blessedly free of the familiar tug at the scar on his cheek. “So do I.”

Heels clicked on poured cement flooring and came to a stop nearby. “You’re sure this is them?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Prints came back a match,” another woman confirmed.

Hannibal’s eyes darted over his face, faint amusement in the lines around his eyes. His pinkie twitched around Will’s tightening. “I defer to you, my dear.”

Will licked his lips, drew a breath. “You just like watching,” he teased.

There was an unpleasant, metallic scent carried in on the next breeze–sweat and iron. The first woman muttered, “What the hell are they doing?”

“They’ve just been sitting there like that since we brought them in,” a man whispered. “They haven’t opened their mouths–not said a single goddamn word the entire time, just sitting there meditating or whatever. It’s freaking everyone out.”

Hannibal smiled and let out a contented sigh. “It’s true,” he said, and Will closed his eyes again when Hannibal reached out to tuck back an errant strand of curls. He cupped Will’s cheek. “I do so love how you look in red.”

“Should we question them?” the man asked.

“The guy with the FBI should be here within a couple of hours,” the second woman said, a nervous thread in her voice.

Heels clicked, coming closer. “We brought them in, we get first dibs,” the first woman said. “We’ll start with Graham. Take him into interrogation 2.”

Excitement and anticipation thrummed through Will’s chest, but his heart rate remained steady and slow, his breathing calm. “I’ll be back for you soon,” he promised.

Hannibal’s thumb dragged back and forth along his cheekbone before his hand fell away all together. “I shall patiently await your return.”

Metal clinked on metal, the sound of a lock disengaging and the door sliding open. “Mister Graham.” The first woman cleared her throat and snapped her fingers.

Will blinked his eyes open to regard her. Short, glossy brown hair back in a neat bun, grey suit–not cheap, but ill-fitting. She had her arms crossed, and he could see her shoulder holster exposed by the gap of her jacket. The gun wasn’t the most well taken care of–she probably didn’t get a lot of chance to practice at the range. Her mistake.

“If you’ll come with me?”

Will sat up straighter, unhooking his finger from Hannibal’s. On the other side of the metal bars that divided their cells, Hannibal‘s hand fell loose at his side. He remained far away in their mind-palace, eyes closed, face placid.

It was only too easy for Will to draw upon his own memories, wrapping the ghost of the man he’d once been around himself like a cloak. He rolled his shoulders forward, hunched in on himself, shuffled his feet as he followed her from the cell. Presented his wrists to have them cuffed without comment or hesitation.

A small man. Nonthreatening. Already he could see the woman’s guard dropping. Somewhere in Hannibal’s mind, an echo of them sat alongside one another on the park bench, and Will grinned, wicked and bright.


	4. Hannibal "Punishing" a Naughty Will

“Upstairs.” Hannibal’s voice is barely more than a whisper, but it rings out in the space between them as if he’s shouted, steely and authoritative. “Now.”

Will freezes, only halfway across the threshold, hand on the doorknob. He can’t see Hannibal’s face to read him, can only see the tense line of his shoulders and the precise way he’s holding himself. Will has been pushing his buttons all night, and he hardly cares to stop now. “Excuse me?” he drawls.

Hannibal turns his head, profile cast in stark light shadow from the hall light. Will can just make out the press of his lips and his lowered brow. “You heard me perfectly well.”

Will releases the doorknob, swinging the garage door closed with a bang that makes the line of Hannibal’s mouth draw tighter, angling down at the corner. “Suppose I was inclined to obey you,” Will says, and doesn’t miss the dangerous flash of Hannibal’s eyes. He comes closer, putting a swagger in his step, and stops in front of Hannibal, leaning back against the wall to look up at him. “What am I supposed to do once I’m there?”

Hannibal takes him in, gaze raking down Will’s torso, where the top several buttons of his shirt have been undone, tie hanging loose, over the obvious bulge in his trousers that’s been there since before they were served the first course at dinner. Will stretches, showing himself off to best effect, tilting his hips forward and watching the way Hannibal’s nostrils flare in mingled arousal and anger.

“Strip yourself and wait in bed.”

Will braces a foot against the wall and reaches out to grab Hannibal by his lapels, but Hannibal resists the sharp tug he gives. His blood rushes in his veins, intoxication making everything sharper and brighter and muted all at once, from his own desire to Hannibal’s annoyance. Every action he has taken tonight has been geared towards getting a rise from Hannibal, and it seems he’s finally succeeded.

He lets his hands fall to his own chest instead, undoing another button, and another. “And should I prepare myself for you?” he asks. He knows how Hannibal likes to watch him, leaning back against the pillows as Will works himself open. The carnal delight he takes in joining Will in bed to find him already slick and stretched, so Hannibal can just fuck right into him.

Hannibal brings up a hand to rest against his collarbone, thumb flicking back and forth over his clavicle. “You’ve delighted in pushing all of my buttons tonight,” he murmurs, stepping into the space left by Will’s bent knee, insinuating himself close enough for Will to feel the hard line of Hannibal’s erection against his hip. “I can only imagine you have had one particular end in mind. So be a good boy, and do as I say, and only as I say.”

Will bites down on a smirk, waiting until Hannibal steps back before slinking down the hall towards the staircase. He leaves a trail of clothing behind him as he goes. Jacket over the bannister, tie on the stairs, shirt in a wrinkled pile on the landing. He tosses his trousers over the settee at the foot of the bed, and his boxers actually make it in the laundry basket.

Even as he climbs into bed and stretches himself over the made sheets, Will can’t help a grin at the thought of Hannibal’s reaction to finding each article. Normally Hannibal picks up after him without complaint, but normally Will isn’t intentionally pissing him off.

Downstairs, he can hear Hannibal moving through the house. Letting the dogs out and back in, starting up the dishwasher, no doubt tidying up Will’s shoes, left in a messy pile in the back hall. There isn’t much left to be taken care of in the evenings, but Will knows Hannibal is drawing it out intentionally.

This is just the beginning of Will’s punishment for his behaviour at dinner.

Honestly, given the amount of wine he’s had tonight, and how long he’s been nursing this hard-on, he’s impressed by how long he manages to hold out. He lies there, toes pressed against the bedspread, hands stretched up over his head, holding onto the headboard to keep from touching himself.

But the minutes drag on and on, and Will’s obedience is a reward for Hannibal. One he isn’t currently earning. So when Will hears that familiar tread on the stairs, pausing here and there to collect Will’s discarded clothing, with a sigh audible even in their room, Will can’t quite help himself. He waits until Hannibal’s footsteps sound down the hall to their room, and wraps his fingers around his straining cock.

He works his fist up and down slowly as Hannibal enters the room. He pauses at the threshold, no doubt drinking in the sight. Will circles his thumb around the head, letting out a breathy little moan at the sensation, and splays legs open wide, reaching between them with his free hand, fingers just brushing his puckered hole.

Hannibal sucks in a sharp breath and exhales, making a tsking noise. Will blinks his eyes open to watch as he makes his way further in the room, working loose his tie. “You’ve been very naughty this evening, Will,” he says, tone conversational, as he tugs the tie free from around his neck with a snap.

Will spreads his legs open wider, tilts his hips up invitingly. The words spark along his nerves, the way Hannibal’s mouth shapes them, how they sound with his accent. He licks his lips. “Are you going to do something about it?”

Like a cat pouncing on his prey, Hannibal moves lightening quick, climbing onto the bed to straddle Will’s thighs. His hands close around Will’s wrists like steel bands and bring them up over his head. He pins them with one hand and winding his tie around and between Will’s wrists, tying tightly.

Hannibal sits back on his heels once he’s satisfied with his work, and pins Will with a dark look. “I’m not certain where you think your insolence will get you.”

Will grins cheekily and wriggles beneath him. “I think it’s gotten me exactly where I want to be,” he says, brow arched.

“Is that so?” Hannibal asks, eyes narrowing to slits. He drags a single finger up the length of Will’s cock, base to tip, touch torturously light and Will struggles not to thrust up into the touch. Slowly, brows knitted together in deep thought, he climbs off Will and the bed altogether.

With a firm jerk on the end of the tie, Hannibal hauls Will up the bed and threads the tie between the slats. Will’s shoulders protests the treatment, and he makes a soft noise of protest. Hannibal’s lips twitch just slightly upward at that. “My dear, clever Will, always with the upper hand.”

Will’s eyes follow Hannibal as he crosses the room. Something has changed, in the past minute, and he no longer knows precisely where this is leading, which makes a sort of foreboding excitement spark in his gut.

Hannibal removes his cufflinks. He places them daintily in their place in the second drawer of the box on his dresser. Then he toes off his shoes and bends to pick them up, before disappearing into the closet. Will can hear him undressing, taking down a hanger.

When he emerges, in nothing more than his unbuttoned dress shirt and boxers, he doesn’t even glance in Will’s direction. Instead he makes his way across the room and through the door that leads to the master bath. Will hears the sound of Hannibal brushing his teeth, relieving himself, the toilet flushing, water running in the sink. Hannibal is forever extolling the virtue of patience.

Will gives the tie an experimental tug. He isn’t surprised when there is no give; Hannibal knows his knots. He arches and twists himself into a more comfortable position, dick bobbing against his stomach as he moves. Patience is overrated, but there’s something to be said for anticipation.

At last, Hannibal comes to stand in the doorway, gloriously nude and Will’s dry mouth waters at the sight of his cock, hard and curving upward. It doesn’t matter how frequently they do this, he has yet to grow accustomed to the level of arousal Hannibal’s naked form inspires in him. His own hunger takes him by surprise every single time.

“Are you coming?” Will asks, unable to keep the faint whine of impatience from his voice.

Hannibal tilts his head to the side, expression appreciative of the view Will presents. It is a stark shift in temperament that brings Will up short. Hannibal wraps a hand around his own cock, jerking leisurely. “Very shortly, I’d wager.”

Will moans, licking his lips reflexively at the thought of Hannibal’s cock on his tongue. Hannibal’s eyes flutter shut briefly at the sound, and when he opens them again, he drops his hand.

“You, on the other hand…” he drawls, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. He perches over Will, not quite touching him, and the tie keeps him from being able to reach, no matter how he strains. Hannibal smirks, a cold, triumphant curl of his lips. “You won’t be coming any time soon.”

With that, he rises from the bed again, and without further comment, walks from the room.

Will waits, ears straining for any clue of what Hannibal has planned. All he hears is the sound of Hannibal’s bare feet against the hardwood floor, heading down the hallway. The door to the guest room, with it’s squeaky hinge, swings open, and then shut. Though the thin wall, he can hear Hannibal climbing into bed–the click of the bedside lamp and the sound of the bed frame shifting under his weight.

A low groan travels through the wall.

It is only then that Will realises the full extent of his error. This certainly isn’t the punishment he’s been anticipating all evening. The sounds Hannibal makes grow louder and more purposefully wanton, the shifting of the sheets and the slick sound of his hand on his dick grows faster.

Will listens, gives the restraints another testing tug, and plots his revenge.


	5. Cross-dressing disguise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: So not Christmas themed, but. The mistletoe fic got me thinking about how the fbi is looking for two men. And we all know that Hugh can look really, really feminine at times... Basically: undercover cross dressing?

They were a striking pair, the French couple that lived in the cabin on the mountainside at the edge of town. Though they tended to keep to themselves, Deidre saw them from time to time walking along the river, hand in hand, browsing the shops in town, dining at street-side cafés. Nothing exciting ever happened in Upper Jay, New York. Everyone knew everyone and had most their life, and these two...they were intriguing.

Hannah, with her high cheekbones accented by honey-coloured hair in a sleek bob, and impeccably applied makeup. Always dressed in glamorous couture. Whether in a plunging blouse cinched at the waist and billowing palazzo pants as she walked through the streets, or the clingy, sparkling cocktail dresses that showed off killer calves, when they went stopped for gas on their way into the city for dinner and a show, Hannah’s clothing was perfectly tailored.

She was the older of the two, and the more personable, as well. Quick with an easy smile, and fond of Deidre’s produce selection at the farmer’s market, Hannah was happy to pay the asking price, rather than haggle over it. She’d ask after Deidre’s sister and offer recipes for the surplus harvest while Mina stood off to the side, aloof and impatient, holding the leashes of their four dogs.

Mina wore her hair long, wild, riotous curls tumbling in her face. It suited her delicate features and casual dress--cargo pants and loose knit shirts, like something straight out of the 90s. Even when they went out on the town, she never quite met Hannah’s high standards. Lightweight stretch jersey dresses in jewel tones. Draped bodices and loose skirts that hid her body as effectively as her hair hid her face. 

Deidre knew she must have heard Mina speak, but she couldn’t think of any specific instance. Maybe her English wasn’t as good? A lot of people in town thought she was a stuck up bitch, but Deidre had seen the warm smile she reserved for Hannah and their dogs, and those bright blue eyes shone through the curtain of her hair, kind and soulful.

If she hadn’t seen the two of them embracing under the covered bridge that one time, she would have just assumed the closeness and hand-holding was some European thing. But she’d seen Hannah pinning Mina to the wall, hand twined in her long curls, moaning and kissing and grinding together like two horny teenagers. Deidre still blushed just thinking about it. 

They were an odd pair, to be sure. Deidre liked to make up stories about them, how’d they met one another, and how they’d ended up here. They had an old book and antique store downtown, dim and dusty, and there was no way the income for that paid for their cabin, or Hannah’s wardrobe, or their shiny new Tesla. 

Her favourite theory was Hannah, the chef who worked too hard and never slowed down, wooing the taciturn Mina with fine cuisine. Mina, the bored heiress, apparently unimpressed, but always coming back again and again. Hannah being used to others fawning over her, taken in by the challenge, cooking for her at the chef’s table after the restaurant was closed, and struck breathless when she finally found the right dish that made Mina light up with one of those rare smiles.

Then it descended into straight-up, hardcore lesbian porn. It was possible Deidre watched too much Orange is the New Black, and was an unrepentant romantic at heart. It was probably something a lot more boring--a professor and doctor retiring early, looking for a slower pace of life--but it didn’t hurt anything to cast them in her silly fantasies.

Nothing exciting ever happened here.

*

The moment they were through the front door, Will was kicking off his shoes and pulling his hair back from his face, tying it up in a knot at the back of his head. No sooner was it off his neck than Hannibal’s lips replaced it, no doubt trailing lipstick in his wake. He smelled of that expensive sandalwood perfume he favoured--clean and musky, and far more masculine than most, but perfume nonetheless.

“I think you’re enjoying this far too much,” Will grumbled, but he obligingly tilted his head to the side for Hannibal’s explanations.

“I would submit that my level of enjoyment at having you in my arms is perfectly normal,” Hannibal said. “However, if you are referring to the disguise, it is no different than any other clothing. It merely serves the purpose of keeping us unrecognisable.”

“Uh huh,” Will said, grinning as he turned, and draping his arms around Hannibal’s neck. He had to admit, there was something appealing about the shape of those lips painted bright carmine. “It has nothing to do with causing me discomfort.”

Hannibal’s eyes twinkled and he leaned in, mouth half open against Will’s in a slow kiss. “The FBI is looking for two men,” he murmured, nibbling at Will’s tip lip. “There is nothing more to it than that, I assure you.”

“Right,” Will agreed, not buying it for a second. He tugged on the collar of Hannibal’s blouse, pulling him along until his legs met the back of the cabinets, and boosted himself up on the counter. He released Hannibal, hands falling to his own knees, gathering up fistfuls of the knit skirt, drawing it higher and higher. 

Underneath Will wore his boxers--there were only so many concessions he was willing to make for the sake of Hannibal’s ridiculous farce, even if it afforded them their anonymity. “That’s all there is to it,” he said knowingly.

Hannibal rubbed his hands along the newly exposed skin, under the loose leg of the boxers. “Absolutely,” he murmured, fingertips brushing against Will’s growing erection. His breath caught and he shifted his legs open wider.

They both nodded, grinning, mouths teasingly close but not touching, sharing the same air. “Right,” Will said again, breathing harder with each passing stroke of Hannibal’s fingers on his cock. He dipped his head as Hannibal leaned in and their lips met.


	6. Therapeutic Benefits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nigel uses a cockring on adam for the first time or adam really likes therapeutic spankings, Nigel is happy to oblige

“I’m sorry,” Nigel says, expression blank. The cigarette hanging from between his lips looks as though it might fall to the ground. Adam wants to snatch it away and rub it out. “You want me to do what, again, love?”

Adam sucks on the inside of his bottom lip, and considers just forgetting it. It’s been years since he’s asked; Harlan just hung his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, telling him he couldn’t _say_ things like that, and Adam didn’t understand the emphasis, but understood not to bring it up again. Beth had drawn back from him, cringed-- _embarrassment, discomfort, distaste--_ and laughingly said, “Um, I don’t think so, Adam.”

Besides the two of them, there’s been no one in his life he’s trusted enough to ask, not since losing his father. He’s found other outlets through trial and error, some of them very effective, but for the cathartic effect, there’s nothing else like it.

He steels himself, stands upright, and tries again. “I want you to spank me.”

Nigel’s eyes narrow (thoughtful? suspicious? angry?) and he puts the cigarette out in his can of beer, blows his mouthful of smoke towards the sky. “What, like...S&M?” He rubs the scruffy hair on his chin. 

Adam knows Nigel has hurt a lot of people, even if they don’t discuss it, even if he doesn’t know the full extent. That Nigel doesn’t take any particular pleasure in it makes it easy for Adam to accept. “It’s not sexual,” he says. “It’s for therapy.”

Nigel cocks his head to the side and the furrow between his brow grows-- _confused concerned_. Adam ploughs onward, because Nigel isn’t saying no, and he isn’t turning away. He’s listening. Nigel has always been such a good listener, just one of many reasons Adam thinks he’ll be good at this.

“Spanking helps me relax,” he explains.

“Baby.” Nigel tugs him close and wraps him up in his arms. Adam’s nose wrinkles at the smell of tobacco clinging to Nigel’s sweater, but he crowds close anyway. “I can think of a lot nicer ways to help you relax.”

“Nigel,” Adam whines, and pushes half-heartedly at his chest. “Please.”

“I’m sorry,” Nigel says at once, cheek pressed to the crown of Adam’s head. “I’ll behave. Tell me?”

Adam loops his arms around Nigel’s waist and leans into his solid weight, his blanket and anchor. “When I’m being spanked, I can let go of my stress and anxiety. Doctor Reynolds said it takes me out of my mind. I don’t have to worry about what I’m supposed to say or do or what anyone is thinking.”

Nigel is quiet long enough that Adam begins to grow uneasy. He leans back, searching Nigel’s face for any clues to what he’s thinking. He thinks it might be sadness? Regret? Nigel traces a hand down Adam’s cheek. “Doesn’t sex do that for you?” he asks.

“It’s different,” Adam protests. He knows that’s an inadequate explanation, but he can’t figure out how to put it into words. When he comes to the jumbled, confusing mess of emotions inside, he’s never been good at untangling them for others to understand. 

Adam turns away from Nigel, pacing along the length of the balcony, arms crossed over his chest. “Sex is...it’s just different. It’s good and I like how it makes me feel, but it’s different, and I don’t want them mixed up. I don’t want sex to be about therapy.”

“Hey, hey,” Nigel says. He hops down from the railing, hands up in Adam’s path. “Look, I...if you think it’ll help, of course I’ll give it a try.”

“Really?” Even with all the discussion, he hadn’t actually been very hopeful. He knows it’s a strange thing to ask, if only because of the way Harlan and Beth reacted, even if it’s someone who loves him.

“You’re gonna have to tell me what to do.” There’s something in Nigel’s eyes, still. Some doubt or concern, perhaps? “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Adam smiles at the warm welling of happiness inside at the words. He already knows them to be true, but Nigel...Nigel is always second guessing himself, his own capacity for things like love and tenderness. Adam can relate to that more than most other things, but if there’s one thing he knows for certain, it’s that underneath everything his life has layered on top of him, Nigel’s capacity for those things is boundless.

“You’ll be so good at it,” he says, with absolute certainty. He reaches out to take Nigel’s hand in his own, steps close and goes up on his toes to press a quick kiss to his lips. “I trust you, Nigel. You’ll be careful not to hit too hard, and you’ll stay calm no matter what I say, and you won’t judge me for it.”

Nigel shakes his head. “Anyone who would judge you doesn’t deserve you,” he says, fierce. 

“That’s why I know you’ll be good,” Adam says. He kisses him again, slower, but pulls away before Nigel can lick into his mouth. The sour taste of beer and nicotine clings to his lips all the same. Adam makes a face.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Nigel mutters. He palms Adam’s hips for a minute, kissing along his cheekbone, before pushing him back. “Let me go brush my teeth, then you can tell me some more about it.”

“I have some websites bookmarked,” Adam tells him helpfully.

Nigel chuckles on his way in the sliding door. “Of course you, do, babe,” he says.

Adam follows him in, already feeling lighter.


	7. Possessive Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I could really do with more possessive!Will in my life. With him saying "Oh I'm sorry I didn't know you guys had such a deep connection." or something. And Will knows Hannibal loves it but still can't stop because Hannibal is HIS. And as much as Hannibal revels in Will's jealousy he wants Will to know that there is no one else in the world but him.

Hannibal is speaking to their gardener about opera again. The man never struck Will as particularly cultured until the day he heard them discussing Wagner. Just the other day Hannibal suggested he listen to _The Magic Flute_ , and now Andrew is all blushes as he thanks Hannibal effusively for the record he found waiting for him in the shed.

Will is quietly fuming when Hannibal comes in, washing up the morning’s dishes and putting them in the drying rack with more force than necessary. Hannibal merely observes for a moment, resting against the counter, arms folded. There is an expression of expectation--he knows Will is going to say whatever he’s going to say, regardless of what Hannibal says or does.

“Is it usual to give gifts to the hired help?” he asks finally.

“I don’t know that it’s unusual,” Hannibal says. He is frustratingly serene. “Andrew’s fondness for opera far outstripes his understanding of it. I thought he might benefit from having his horizons broadened.”

“Oh, I bet you did,” Will mutters, and he doesn’t miss the flash of pleasure in Hannibal’s eyes, like Will speaking those very words means Hannibal has just scored a point in their never-ending game.

“He lost his fiancée last year, and he’s been wallowing in that grief, listening to the music she left behind.” Hannibal speaks as if Will hadn’t. “I think the Mozart will do him some good.”

Will’s jaw works in his anger, tongue caught painfully between his teeth. It’s utterly absurd to be reacting in this way, especially when he knows it’s precisely what Hannibal wants, and yet...he can’t stop the words from coming, bitter and scathing. “I didn’t realise the two of you had such an intimate connection.”

Hannibal places a hand on Will’s shoulder. “Your jealousy is unnecessary, if flattering.” He presses a kiss to Will’s cheek in passing, on his way out of the room. Will clutches the knife he’s washing in his fist and reminds himself it’s far too risky to kill someone on their payroll, and besides, it’s not _Andrew’s_ fault that Hannibal is flirting with him.

Will has never been a possessive lover. In fact, there are women in his past who have complained that he didn’t care enough to feel jealousy over them. At the time, Will suffered the accusations in mingled bewilderment, indignance, and pity--what a sad commentary on society that his girlfriends thought possession was a mark of affection.

The thing is, what’s the point? If someone wants to be with you, they will be, and if they’d prefer someone else, why try to hang onto them? It all made perfect sense until Hannibal turned everything Will believed on its head.

Now he understand the hungry, greedy, _obsessive_ need to stake his claim for all to see: Hannibal is _his_. He belongs to Will, and everyone should know it. Leaving tender raspberry lovebites on Hannibal’s neck, replaced with new when they begin to fade. Taking Hannibal’s hand in his when he lingers too long in the market, making smalltalk with the owner of a stand.

Dragging him into the nearest bathroom stall when someone so much as _looks_ at Hannibal with intent--forcing him on his knees where Hannibal obediently sucks him off and lets him come all over his face; or gasping into the tile wall as Will fucks him hard and desperate and just on the wrong side of _too fast too dry_ and buries himself deep.

And Hannibal revels in it. He preens at Will’s attention. Wears his collars left undone to show off the marks of Will’s passion. Allows himself to be led through crowded stalls like a dog on a leash. Ends his conversations without a moment’s protest and only perfunctorily wipes his face clean after. Walks around with Will’s cum leaking out of his ass, smelling of sex and sweat, and smiles guilelessly--a man without a care in the world.

Then there’s the inexplicable, sexual thrill of seeing Hannibal in his clothing. Hannibal knows the effect it has on Will and flaunts it shamelessly. Around the house in Will’s boxers, easily identifiable in cotton plaid as opposed to delicate silk paisley and stripes. Casual and calm up to the moment Will tears them off, when he responds with equal passion--as hungry to be owned by Will as Will is to own him.

Showing up in the library where Will works in one of Will’s worn old henleys. They pull tight at Hannibal’s broad shoulders, baring a slip of belly when he stretches, and Hannibal’s eyes flare when they catch Will’s. Nothing but the sound of their breathing and the whisper of clothing from the deserted stacks at the back of the 5th floor--local government documents--the two of them undressing just enough for Hannibal to fuck inside him, Will panting and needy, bent over the cold metal shelving.

Sitting down across from him at dinner, Will’s blue spinel cufflinks flashing on his wrists whenever he gestures to the waiter, runs a hand through his hair, lifts his wineglass to his mouth. And the twist of his lips each time saying he knows exactly what it does to Will. He’ll slip off his dress shoe and rest his foot in Will’s lap, coaxing him to hardness and keeping him there the entire time they eat.

Yes, Hannibal not only delights in it, he _encourages_ Will’s possessiveness. Flirting with the young lady with the noxious perfume, who stepped on Will’s toes on her way to her seat in the box. Casting Will purposeful, taunting looks over her shoulder and then gracing her with a smile when she rests her hand on his arm. 

All the while, knowing full well how this will end. The two of them doused in her blood, the friction burn up Hannibal’s back when Will fucks him into the floor next to her lifeless body. His mouth on Hannibal’s throat, fierce when he comes with a growl of _mine._ And after, Hannibal’s hand soft in his hair, his eyes adoring on Will’s face when he assures him, “Yes, yours.”


End file.
